


BOOM!

by PotterWhoLockLin



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Explosion, Missing Scene, The Great Game, Unconscious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:51:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotterWhoLockLin/pseuds/PotterWhoLockLin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from the Great Game. We know that Sherlock was caught in the after-blast of a "gas explosion", but what happened next? Read on...</p>
            </blockquote>





	BOOM!

Sherlock was bored. Unbelievably bored. No cases, no murders - not even a theft. He was BORED. John had got offended when Sherlock had criticised his blog and had promptly left, and now Mrs Hudson was Hudson-ing around, and generally being annoying. What was that she was saying...?  
"...a nice murder. That'll cheer you up."  
"Can't come too soon," he said wistfully, gazing out the window. His thoughts were once more brought sharply back to reality by Mrs Hudson.  
"Hey. What have you done to my bloody wall?!"  
Sherlock quirked a smile and turned to admire his handiwork. He'd painted a smiley face (with the paint used by the Chinese smugglers in their last case) on the wall opposite the fireplace, and had taken potshots at it earlier with John's gun. On later reflection, perhaps that was why John was so angry with him...  
"I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" Mrs Hudson said angrily, turning on her heel and storming out the door. Sherlock watched her go.  
Bor-ing.  
He sighed with frustration and turned to face the kitchen. He had a vague idea about getting himself a mug of tea...  
...and then a massive explosion shattered the windows behind him, the force of the blast pitching him forwards onto the floor, arms flailing. His head whacked against the boards and he groaned, hearing car alarms beeping manically in the distance. The noise faded from his head soon enough.

Sherlock came round to D.I Lestrade crouching over him worriedly, gently slapping his face.  
"What?" he said articulately, groggily lifting his head.  
"He's awake, it's fine," Lestrade called out to no one in particular, before turning back to Sherlock, who cautiously pushed himself upright. Mistake. His head throbbed wildly, reminding him of the days when he regained consciousness after a night of overdosing.  
"What happened?" he muttered, trying not to speak too loud. Lestrade was either less compassionate or simply less aware, talking a rate of decibels that were at the perfect pitch to aggravate his headache.  
"There was an explosion across the street, and we were called out. A gas leak - that's what everyone says. We're still checking. Anyway, saw your windows had been blown out, and we - well, I - came up to check you were alright. Your landlady said you were up here, so I came up the stairs. And...yeah," he finished lamely as Sherlock levered himself stiffly into his armchair.  
"How long was I out?" he asked, pulling his violin from it's case and examining it minutely for damage.  
"The explosion was about...hang on - well, roughly about fifteen minutes," Lestrade replied, settling himself in John's chair. "Are you hurt at all?"  
Sherlock ran a mental self-diagnosis. No fractures, no dislocations, no concussion. Bruises? Yes, definitely. Cuts? No - actually, there appeared to be one on the back of his head. Falling glass, perhaps. His right temple was pulsing with pain and he winced, bringing up his hand to gently probe it.  
"Cut on the back of the head, no concussion, no broken bones."  
"Come on then, let's get you down to the ambulance. I'll get someone to fix your windows."  
Sherlock nearly protested, but submitted himself into being helped down the stairs by Lestrade, and into the waiting ambulance outside. 

The cut required no stitches, and was rather incompetently patched up by a paramedic. The second he was free from their clutches, he returned to the flat, brushing past a sneering Sally Donovan, who had clearly stayed at Anderson's house overnight. He groaned quietly as he sank into his armchair, and he scrabbled in his pocket for his phone, which was ringing. He checked the ID.  
Ah.  
Mycroft.


End file.
